The burden of being great
by Genghiz Khan
Summary: In the summer of his third year, Harry is given a question to ponder. The question sticks to him and changes his life. The question he asks himself? Greatness, what are you?


**A/N:** A little something which has come to my head and is refusing to go away until I don't write it down. Expect weekly updates, I have a beta. Chelseyb1010 is the person for the job and I'm extremely grateful for someone (thank God!) having agreed to keep me on the straight and narrow for this fic. The premise is, what if Harry was confronted with a message which seems to drive home a message No one ever gave him?

* * *

**Greatness**

"Harry Potter," came a soft voice, making him jump. "11 inches, Holly and Phoenix feather, flexible, wasn't it? Good for transfiguration and not bad in charms."

"Sir..." replied Harry, a forbidding feeling surfacing in his gut. He was vividly reminded of the creepy wandmaker when he had come here to first get his wand, two summers ago.

"No need to be worried, Mr Potter," the old man stepped out of the shadows. "People come here all the time just to look at wands or ask me about caring for theirs."

Harry wasn't very sure of that statement; diagon alley was very crowded and the shop was empty, but he wasn't one to argue. He just nodded out of politeness.

"But you're not here to ask for wandcare, are you? Can I see your wand, Mr Potter?"

Harry slowly took it out and handed it over to the wandmaker, all the while wondering what had caused him to actually enter this particular shop. It didn't feel like his smartest decision at the moment. The wandmaker was just as creepy as he remembered, maybe even more so.

Ollivander carefully took the wand from his hands, caressing it softly. "One of my finest creations, this wand," he murmured, a smile upon his ancient features. "The brother wand," He trailed off, his eyes fixed on Harry, who gave an audible gulp. "I'm sorry, Mr Potter, that one of my creations was the one which deprived you of your family." Harry's throat constricted. This was not what he had in mind at all when he entered this shop.

But Ollivander continued, almost completely oblivious to Harry's growing discomfort. "But this wand," he said, his voice growing very soft, and his eyes leaving Harry's face as his thoughts carried him beyond the confines of this little shop. "This wand speaks of greatness, Mr Potter. Both this wand as well as its brother. You-know-who did terrible things, yet great ones. We will expect greatness from you, won't we Mr Potter?" His eyes, which had been staring off into infinity, came back and fixed themselves on Harry's face, almost demanding an answer.

"Uh, well," stammered Harry, "Yes, sir. I mean, I will try to be great. I mean, good, I mean -"

"Tell me, Mr Potter," interrupted Ollivander sharply, "do you know the meaning of greatness? Why are some people great and not others?"

Harry stared at the wand maker.

"You don't know, do you?"

Harry sheepishly shook his head, eyes averted. The wand maker sighed.

"Mr Potter," said Ollivander softly, but firmly. "What makes you who you are?"

Harry looked up at him, a bit uncertain. "I don't know, sir," he ventured eventually.

The aged wandmaker nodded, almost as if he'd expected the answer. "Tell me, Mr Potter, why are you confined here in Diagon Alley?"

"The minister for magic asked me to remain here, and it'd be rude to refuse him after the help he's given me this summer," said Harry.

"Ah, your aunt, you mean." Looking at Harry's face, Ollivander laughed. "Albus Dumbledore is a great friend of mine, Harry Potter. We often get together for tea in the evenings. The last time we met, in fact, was yesterday."

A small pit of anger developed inside Harry. Who was Dumbledore to be going off telling all things about him to whoever he pleased? Dumbledore had no right to betray his confidence!

"Do not be mad at Albus," continued Ollivander, correctly interpreting Harry's expressions. "I was his best friend during both the Great War as well as the Second World War. We share many things. And anyway, many people know already. Anyone who has reasonably good contacts in the ministry will know of your predicament."

Harry scowled.

"But back to the topic," said the wandmaker, a smile in his voice which was completely absent from his facial expressions. "Why are you confined to Diagon Alley, Mr Potter? Accidental magic, though rare at this age, isn't rare enough for your case to be exceptional at all. Why have you, in particular, been made to stay in Diagon Alley while the rest of them who have comitted that very crime are made to answer to a representative from the ministry?"

"It's because I'm the boy who lived, all right?" Harry burst out, finally having had enough.

Olliivander smiled. "Exactly my point. You defeated Lord Voldemort at the age of one."

"So?"

"Indeed. Why does that make you special? Do you even remember how you did it?"

"No, but then again, even Professor Dumbledore doesn't know," replied Harry testily.

Ollivander shook his head. "Albus is not one who needs to know, Harry Potter. Albus is already great."

Harry was confused and irritated. "I don't get you, sir," he ventured.

"To put it in obvious terms, Mr Potter," said Ollivander, his face losing all expression, "Cornelius Fudge put you here because you are important to the wizarding world. Most people believe that he is dead, do they not?" Harry nodded, still confused. "So does Fudge. But this is not a small matter. The greatest Dark Lord in the second half of this century is not someone to be taken lightly. As far as I understand, there are people who believe that he might be alive."

Harry shuddered, remembering the shade he'd encountered in his first year.

"Judging by your reaction, you are aware of this fact," said Ollivander, his silver eyes glinting as they studied Harry's every movement. Harry nodded.

"Good," continued the wand maker. "I expect that you're doing something about it?"

"Doing something about it?" echoed Harry blankly.

"Of course! Training, studying extra hard, something about that sort. You're the boy who lived, surely he'd hunt you down, if only to prove a point!"

Harry swallowed. He'd never thought of that. All the irritation he'd felt at the wandmaker suddenly melted away to be replaced by something worse. Fear.

"You are, I know!" said the wandmaker, oblivious to the shift in Harry's mood. "You probably train everyday, right? You can probably duel a fourth year and not be fazed, no? Potters, after all, were notoriously great duellists."

Harry's thought ground to a halt. Potters? Were they renowned? His family was famous?

Ollivander continued. "And I bet you have a better -"

"If you don't mind, sir," interrupted Harry quietly, "I'd like to leave."

Ollivander seemed taken aback. "If you wish Mr. Potter, but -"

But Harry did not hear him, his thoughts awhirl as he strode out of the shop, the loudness of the crowd hitting him like a wave after the quietness of the shop. He walked down the alley, not paying heed to where and why. His thoughts were a mass of confused and awed feelings.

He had a family with a history, Harry had just found out. But why had no one told him? Dumbledore, Mr Weasley, anyone else? He knew that he deserved to know. It was his family for God's sake!  
But a new part of his mind, a part just recently awakened told him otherwise. There was no reason an adult had to tell him anything, right? What would Dumbledore gain by telling him about the Potters? Dumbledore wasn't his guardian or anything, was he? No, otherwise Harry would have known. Professor Dumbledore wouldn't keep anything from him, would he? Even if he would, amended Harry, he wouldn't conceal a matter directly relating to him. No, Dumbledore must have assumed Vernon or someone had told him. Harry snorted, the sound lost in the crowd. Of course he would've, everyone assumed Harry had a perfect family. And anyway, if Dumbledore knew the sort of family Harry had and was his guardian, he would have removed him from their care. For a moment, he imagined the thought of being Albus Dumbledore's ward. Harry Potter-Dumbledore. It had a weird ring to it. He shook his head wryly. It was better to steer clear of intangibles.

He sat down at Florean Fortesque's ice cream parlour, absently waving at the man as he walked past, a tray in his hands. The Potters. A great family? Ollivander talked about them as if he'd known a lot about them. But then again, the man was a contemporary of Dumbledore, obviously he knew things. Would it not be better to simply ask Dumbledore?

There was no reason for an adult to tell me anything,' the thought returned to Harry's mind as he absently bit into a sundae Florean had put on his table. The ice-cream maker, having recognised Harry's thoughtful expression, had left the boy to his own devices.

Harry worked through the sundae, his thoughts on his family and his own resourcefulness. His time at the Dursleys came to mind. Adults were not inclined to help children until they absolutely had to. He'd done everything on is own then. Looking back at his time in Hogwarts, he realised that nothing had changed here either. He'd done everything himself. The bars on his windows before his second year had been remeved by Fred and George, but beyond that, there had been almost no help given to him. Hermione, true, and even Ron, but that wasn't help. That was just like friends banding together to do something.

But none of it had been an achievement either. He wouldn't have survived first year had it not been for his mother's protection. Harry gave a mental grimace, that could be counted as an adult giving him help, but that had been when he was one. He couldn't help it. Second year was just him and his guts. A sword in his hands and his body and mind. But without Fawkes... Harry shuddered. People had helped him all right. They just hadn't taken care of him.

But then again, thought Harry, Dumbledore had cast blood protection over Privet Drive. No wait, they had taken care of him too. Then why did something feel off? Why had Ollivander hinted to him that there was more to this than he was thinking? His life was stretched out in front of him, why could he not connect the dots? What was the problem?

Harry shook his head as he finished the sundae. There wasn't much ground to go upon. Logical puzzles were Hermione's forte. He had no way to make the connection.

* * *

"Harry!" Hermione and Ron waved at him, their faces brown from all the time spent abroad. Harry's face broke out into a grin as he walked over to them. Fortesque smiled as he came over to the table.

"The usual, Mr Potter?" he asked.

Harry's smile got bigger. "Absolutely, sir," he replied.

Florean shook his head and sighed theatrically before walking off speaking something which sounded suspiciously like, "How many times..."

He turned to face his friends, who were both staring at him, Ron with raised eyebrows and Hermione with a narrow-eyed expression. Ron spoke first. "How did you -"

He never got to finish that sentence because Hermione broke in. "Is it true, Harry, that you blew up your aunt?"

Ron roared with laughter as Harry sheepishly scratched his neck. "Yeah," he admitted, "But in my defense," he continued defensively, "she was really getting on my nerves and insulting my parents."  
Hermione's eyes softened and Ron laughed hard, his face red. "Believe me," he managed, "if I'd done the same, the ministry people would have to dig me up to do anything, 'cause mum would already have killed and buried me."

"Ron!" Hermione turned to face him. "This isn't the time to be making jokes! He could've got arrested!" She turned to face him. "Speaking of which, why weren't you?"

Harry was suddenly and vividly reminded of Ollivander's question. The aged wandmaker had asked it of him nearly a full week ago, but it had remained seared in his mind as if carved into his skull. Thankfully, Ron butted in. "Are you saying that you would've wanted him to go to Azkaban? By the gods, Hermione, are you insane?"

Hermione retorted, at which point Harry tuned them out with a smile. He didn't know how much he missed this until it was taken away from him. The sound of his two best friends arguing.

"Come on," said Harry, interrupting the argument, which had suddenly taken a turn towards the importance of studies, as it was often wont to do. "We need to get our supplies."

"Haven't you already got them?" questioned Ron. "I mean, you have been living in this alley for a month."

"True," Harry admitted, "but I guess you guys still have to get your stuff. So where first?"

"A pet shop," Ron replied immediately. "I need to get Scabbers checked, he's been losing hair and going all sleepy lately."

"He has always been sleepy Ronald," said Hermione, starting their argument all over again. Harry rolled his eyes as they made their way to the pet store, Ron going straight to the counter to get scabbers checked as Harry went with Hermione to look at the owls.

Owls of all shapes and sizes adorned the counters, all following the couple with their large eyes. It was starting to feel slightly creepy to Harry.

"What do you think of this one, Harry?" asked Hermione, breaking him out of his mood. The owl she was pointing towards was a brown owl. Harry stared at it.

"Nah," he replied. "Too common." He looked around, and finding an owl he liked, pointed at it. "That one?"

Hermione inspected it. The owl hooted at her. She shook her head. "I don't like it."

Harry sighed. "They're owls, Hermione. Just pick one and be done with it."

"Did you pick Hedwig that way, Harry?" Hermione retorted sharply.

"No," Harry admitted.

"And besides," Hermione continued, a smug look on her face, "Ron will take time at the counter, so we have an excuse."

Harry sighed, his eyes heavenwards. She had him properly defeated, there was no way he could get out of this in good conscience. "All right, Hermione," he said finally. "Whatever you say."

* * *

Harry stared at the ceiling of his room in the Leaky Cauldron. The sounds of Molly Weasley shrieking at Fred and George were filtering through the silencing charms placed upon the rooms. Something about Percy and his head boy badge. The corners of Harry's mouth twitched as he thought about the twins. Whatever Molly would say, those two would never learn.

With a sigh, he turned his thoughts to to other things. After giving it a great deal of thought (and some consultation with Florean Fortesque), he'd finally sent a letter to Professor McGonagall that he wanted to change his electives. Instead of Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, he'd picked Arithmancy and Magical Theory.

The stern professor, of course, had been delighted that her student had come to his senses and had decided to drop divination. Hedwig had returned from Mcgonagall an hour back and was now sleeping, her duty done. Harry mused on his choice for a moment. Had he done the right thing? He didn't know, really.

And what did he gain out of it?

He remembered the wand maker's words. Why are some people great, and not others? The question bugged him like no other. Why were some people great? What made them amazing? He knew he would have to find out, and the perfect place to do that would be the library. He'd been a great patron of the library in his younger days, courtsey Dudley, so why did he hate the place now that he was in Hogwarts?

Not hate, he amended, he just nursed a great wariness of the place.

Why?

Because going inside meant doing work.

Harry raised his eyebrows when he came to that conclusion. He hated hard work so much? He would've been an outcast in Hufflepuff. Harry shook his head, lips pursed. Things would change this year, he vowed. He would make sure of it.

"Greatness," he whispered into the room. "What art thou?"

* * *

**A/N:** Slightly short, I know. Anyway, do tell me where you think this fic might end. And before the question comes up, the pairing has been decided. But do keep yourselves on your toes guessing who it is.

For people desperate for me to update 'Bounty Hunter', I'm stuck there. I have a story planned out, just not well enough for me to write it down and mark some things complete. I guess I'll bumble around in this story and try to complete that one in the process.


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